mere moral sand-pile; and I lifted up my hand along with those seasoned
and experienced deacons and swore off every rag of personal property I’ve
got in the world, clear down to cork leg, glass eye, and what is left of
my wig.
Those tax officers were moved; they were profoundly moved. They had long
been accustomed to seeing hardened old grafters act like that, and they
could endure the spectacle; but they were expecting better things of me,
a chartered, professional moralist, and they were saddened.
I fell visibly in their respect and esteem, and I should have fallen in
my own, except that I had already struck bottom, and there wasn’t any
place to fall to.
At Tuskeegee they will jump to misleading conclusions from insufficient
evidence, along with Doctor Parkhurst, and they will deceive the student
with the superstition that no gentleman ever swears.
Look at those good millionaires; aren’t they gentlemen? Well, they
swear. Only once in a year, maybe, but there’s enough bulk to it to make
up for the lost time. And do they lose anything by it? No, they don’t;
they save enough in three minutes to support the family seven years.
When they swear, do we shudder? No–unless they say “damn!” Then we do.
It shrivels us all up. Yet we ought not to feel so about it, because we
all swear–everybody. Including the ladies. Including Doctor Parkhurst,
that strong and brave and excellent citizen, but superficially educated.
For it is not the word that is the sin, it is the spirit back of the
word. When an irritated lady says “oh!” the spirit back of it is “damn!”
and that is the way it is going to be recorded against her. It always
makes me so sorry when I hear a lady swear like that. But if she says
“damn,” and says it in an amiable, nice way, it isn’t going to be
recorded at all.
The idea that no gentleman ever swears is all wrong; he can swear and
still be a gentleman if he does it in a nice and, benevolent and
affectionate way. The historian, John Fiske, whom I knew well and loved,
was a spotless and most noble and upright Christian gentleman, and yet he
swore once. Not exactly that, maybe; still, he–but I will tell you
about it.
One day, when he was deeply immersed in his work, his wife came in, much
moved and profoundly distressed, and said: “I am sorry to disturb you,
John, but I must, for this is a serious matter, and needs to be attended
to at once.”
Then, lamenting, she brought a grave accusation against their little son.
She said: “He has been saying his Aunt Mary is a fool and his Aunt Martha
is a damned fool.” Mr. Fiske reflected upon the matter a minute, then
said: “Oh, well, it’s about the distinction I should make between them
myself.”
Mr. Washington, I beg you to convey these teachings to your great and
prosperous and most beneficent educational institution, and add them to
the prodigal mental and moral riches wherewith you equip your fortunate
proteges for the struggle of life.
TAMMANY AND CROKER
Mr. Clemens made his debut as a campaign orator on October 7,
1901, advocating the election of Seth Low for Mayor, not as a
Republican, but as a member of the “Acorns,” which he described
as a “third party having no political affiliation, but was
concerned only in the selection of the best candidates and the
best member.”
Great Britain had a Tammany and a Croker a good while ago. This Tammany
was in India, and it began its career with the spread of the English
dominion after the Battle of Plassey. Its first boss was Clive, a
sufficiently crooked person sometimes, but straight as a yard stick
when compared with the corkscrew crookedness of the second boss, Warren
Hastings.
That old-time Tammany was the East India Company’s government, and had
its headquarters at Calcutta. Ostensibly it consisted of a Great Council
of four persons, of whom one was the Governor-General, Warren Hastings;
really it consisted of one person–Warren Hastings; for by usurpation he
concentrated all authority in himself and governed the country like an